'He fucking what?'
'Yes, I know, it turned a few heads in the café, I can tell you.'
'And you didn't tell him to fuck off?'
'No, Dan, I didn't. He was just so . . . you know, keen. I haven't had that in a while. It makes a girl feel good.'
'I don't believe I'm hearing this.'
'Well, you are. He's just a big stupid puppy and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.'
'His feelings?'
'Yes, Dan. Feelings. Remember them? He's young, he's in love. You have to let people down gently. Didn't you ever do that?'
'It was always the other way around. Except they usually just told me to fuck away off.'
She laughed. 'That I can understand.'
'So what way did you leave it?'
'I said I loved you despite your many and varied faults, that I was touched by his feelings for me and I'd have to think about things.'
'Trish – I don't understand why you didn't just tell him straight. Isn't it worse, just keeping him hanging on? That's cruel.'
'Dan – I do need to think about things.'
'About running away with him?'
'No. About everything. About us. Dan, I do love you, but you're very hard work, and if a fit young man with an exceptionally large penis comes along, you can't blame me for being tempted.'
'Of course I fucking can.' It struck me then that she was in her car and driving. I said, 'He's with you in the car, isn't he?'
'No, don't be stupid.'
'You are running away together.'
'No, Dan.'
'Then where are you?'
'I'm on the M2. I'm going to my sister's. I haven't seen her in ages.'
'And he's not with you?'
'No, Dan.'
I drummed my fingers on the dash. 'Swear to God.'
'Swear to God. I might stay the night. It's a long drive, and I fancy a few drinks.'
'And he's really not with you. Or meeting you there. Or you're really going to a hotel with him.'
'Dan, you're going to have to trust me.'
'Well, you've strayed before.'
'Pot. Kettle. Black.'
'I thought we were past that.'
'We are. I'm going to my sister's.'
'When will you be back?'
'Tomorrow.'
I took a deep breath. 'Swear to God?'
'Yes, Dan.' She cut the line.
I was aware that she hadn't actually said, 'Swear to God.'
My lip was sore. I checked it in the mirror. I must have been picking at it while Patricia threatened to break my heart, for it was bleeding freely again.
Alec Large had caused me damage twice in one day. Once to my lip, and then an assault on my marriage. He had had the temerity to sit in a public café and invite my wife to run away with him, and then casually thrown in as an added incentive the fact that he had an exceptionally large penis.
Large by name, large by nature.
As Oscar Wilde had once never said, 'What a cunt.'
38
Patricia was gone for the night, maybe longer, and her mobile was switched off now. She wanted to be alone. With her sister. Or, for all I knew, Alec Large. There was nothing I could do, except call her sister, or drive down the motorway and camp outside the house and spy. But I wouldn't. I knew her too well. It would only make matters ten times worse. She would be back in the morning, and we would laugh about it. Then we would fall into bed and make love, and we would both try to ignore the fact that May Li and Mouse had enjoyed four orgasms a night, and that Alec Large had an exceptionally large penis which was probably capable of delivering the same. We would fail, but that was the nature of life, and fantasy. We would both keep quiet about it, unless she wanted to score points.
I didn't want to go home to an empty house. Besides, although I was no longer working for Belfast Confidential, I still had a job. I had set out to discover who had killed Mouse, and I intended to see it through. Of the eight names on my list of suspects – six Power Listers plus May Li and Wendy – Liam Miller was dead and May Li had fled the country; Jacintha Ryan was still in America; Wendy McBride had assumed control of Belfast Confidential; Patrick O'Brien was still in charge of Past Masters and Terry Breene was nursing a sore head and tarnished dreams. Purely on past form, Concrete Corcoran was the one most capable of painting the town red. With added wildebeest.
I drove to Past Masters, parked outside and went upstairs and ordered a drink. The barman said, 'I'm sorry, sir, but you have to be a member to drink here.'
Patrick O'Brien had given me a membership card. I produced it. The barman took it, and ripped it up.
'News travels fast,' I said. He smiled. I said, 'One minute you're in, and hot, and the next minute you're out.'
'Tell me about it.' It wasn't the barman. I turned to find Terry Breene standing beside me, cigar in hand.
'They haven't cancelled you as well?'
'Here? No, of course not. Out there – yes, it's starting.' He coughed suddenly, a long phlegmy effort which sounded like two parts smoking and three parts pleurisy. Then he rubbed at his throat. 'All the fucking things I've done in my life, and it takes something I had nothing to do with to turn me into a fucking pariah.' He glared suddenly at the barman. 'So give the man a fucking drink, he's my guest.'
'Yes, sir,' said the barman, and asked me what I wanted.
'My usual,' I said.
Mine was a pint, his was a tall glass full of vodka with a little ice and even less Coke. We went to the same table as before. He walked slowly, his shoulders slumped. Despite the fresh liver, he now looked his age. Overnight. As he sat down he said, 'Christ, you have to laugh,' but gave no indication of being able to. 'You hear the latest? Ryan fucking Auto have withdrawn their sponsorship. Talk about kicking a man when he's down.'
'What did they say?'
'Off the record? They say in the run-up to the launch of their new fucking car they can't afford to be associated with a football club which has such violent, racist supporters.'
'And on?'
'Corporate rethink. It's all the same shite. The fuckers.' He lifted his drink and drained half of it. It would have had me under the table, but he hardly blinked. He set it down hard and said, 'This is the fucking end.'
'You think so?'
He took a deep breath, and it seemed to catch in his throat, and he gave a ragged cough, and then another. When he'd recovered sufficiently he raised his hand and began to count off on his fingers. 'First, they picked up half of Sandy Row this morning, and it didn't take them long to work out that the boys that did it are all members of Linfield Supporters Club. Second, UEFA are holding an enquiry, and once they hear that they're all supporters, they'll kick us out of the tournament; their fucking president has already said as much. If it had been the fucking Germans nobody would have minded, but Israelis! Christ. Third, that means no television money, no sponsorship, nothing to pay the players with or to repay the loans I've taken out to cover the purchase of the club. Fourth, I've put every red cent I have into this – everything I've saved. I've sold every trophy, medal, I've remortgaged the houses. It's all fucking gone because some hoods from Sandy Row showed our visitors a typical Belfast welcome.' He gave another hacking, chesty cough, then drained his glass. He gave me a terribly sad look. 'Dan – I'm fucked.'
'Well, at least you have your health.'
He smiled at that. He even laughed. 'At least I have my health.' He glanced up at the bar, and with it getting closer to the evening, the shift had changed; the barman who'd refused me service had gone, and now there were two of the tight-sweatered blondes chatting and smoking and getting ready for a busy night behind the bar, and three others on the floor, doing much the same. He smiled across at them, then returned his attention to his empty glass. He lifted it, turned it in his hand. The two cubes of ice hadn't had time to melt. 'You know,' he said, 'it was all so long ago, but it still feels like yesterday.'
'You were the greatest footballer I ever saw.'
He said, 'I was the greatest footballer anyone ever saw. But I never played in a World Cup.'
'Neither did George Best.'
'Best? I could've run rings round him.' He nodded to himself. 'Do you think that's what people will remember, the football? Not all the other mess?'
'Always the football. News gets old, but you can watch old football for ever.'
'Well. That's good to know.' He finished his drink. He stood up and put his hand out to me. 'See you around, mate.'
I shook it. He was a legend. The legend walked to the bar, asked for and received a full bottle of vodka; he pointed across at me, then crossed the floor towards one of the waitresses. He whispered in her ear. Then he went upstairs. A few moments later, she followed. Then one of the waitresses came over with a tray of pints. She placed one in front of me, then a second, a third and a fourth. 'From Terry,' she said, and gave me a wink. I wasn't particularly in the mood for drinking, but it would have been churlish to refuse. So I made myself comfortable. I took my new mobile phone out several times, tempted to call Patricia, or at the very least to satisfy myself that she was where she said she was. But I put it away each time.
Trust.
I was on the fourth pint when Patrick O'Brien came in. He looked surprised to see me. He spoke to one of the barmaids, then came over. 'When you finish your drink,' he said, 'you'll have to go. We've been very patient.'
'I thought we were best mates.'
'It's nothing personal, Dan. Purely business.'
'That means you've been busy signing up Wendy McBride.'
'Like I say, purely business.'
'Is she putting you on the Power List?'
'Of course.'
'What number?'
'I'm sworn to secrecy. But it'll definitely be top twenty.'
'I'm pleased for you. I wouldn't have put you that high.'
'There's no need to be bitter, Dan.'
'Not bitter. Just honest.' I stood and pulled on my jacket. I glanced around the interior of the bar, possibly for the last time. 'I see your paintings are gone.'
'Just loaned out for an exhibition.'
'You get kind of used to them, don't you?'
'I suppose.' He said it with the kind of clipped finality that made it clear he wanted me gone right now. Never being one to outstay my welcome, I turned to go. He said, 'Maybe when things settle down, you can apply for membership.'
'Yup,' I said, without looking around.
Just as I reached the top of the stairs leading down to the exit, a scream tore through the air.
I spun back. It came again. A girl, somewhere above.
O'Brien stood by the bar, immobile; the waitresses looked at each other. Nobody seemed to want to make the first move. So I did what I always do, rushed towards the source of the trouble without thinking through any of the possibilities. I hit the stairs leading to the upper floors. When I reached the landing on the second floor I hesitated. Swing doors opened below me and O'Brien appeared. 'Wait! Wait!' he called, but then the girl screamed again and I had a better fix on it. I took the next flight of steps three at a time and emerged into a narrow corridor with six closed doors, three on either side. A girl was crying. Second room on the left. I tried the handle. It was locked. I raised my foot just as O'Brien appeared at the end of the corridor, bargirls crowded up behind him. I struck the door with everything I had, and it flew open surprisingly easily. The bargirl Terry Breene had left with was sitting up in the bed, naked under the covers. She was finally done with the screaming. Her mouth worked like a fish out of water as she pointed at the windows. They opened outwards to give a fantastic view across the Belfast skyline. Unfortunately, they also gave a fantastic view of Terry Breene, lying smashed and bloody and very obviously dead on the pavement three floors below.
39
It took a while to calm her down. This was understandable. As she told it, one minute Terry Breene had been screwing her, then he'd climbed off, taken a long swig from his bottle of vodka, then made a dash for the window and thrown himself out. She'd heard him strike the ground, three floors below.
Yuk.
While the other girls tried to console her, Patrick O'Brien spent a long time staring at the pavement. I stood with him for a while, then said, 'You'd better call the cops.'
He nodded, but he didn't move. I turned to the girl. She was sniffing up, then blowing down into a tissue. Her mascara was all over the place and the bedclothes had fallen away, revealing that she was indeed naked, but now she didn't care one way or the other.
I said, 'Did he say anything?'
'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.'
'I mean, before he jumped. To you.'
'No. He never did. He saw. He came. He jumped.' She looked at her friends. 'It wasn't me, was it? Tell me it wasn't me . . .' She broke down into tears again. The other girls patted and stroked her.
Patrick O'Brien was shaking his head, his eyes still glued to the pavement. 'This is going to kill us, it's really going to kill us.'
I could have said a lot of things to that. But I didn't. I walked out of the room and down the stairs. There was a small crowd of customers grouped around the doors at the bottom, wondering what all the commotion was. I pushed through them, ignoring their questions, then ducked in behind the bar. There was no one to stop me. I poured myself a shot of whiskey, and drained it. I took another. Then I headed for the exit. As I reached the top of the stairs, leading down, another man came racing up them.
'Jesus Christ!' he shouted, and everyone turned. 'Someone's just killed themselves out there!'
Immediately the crowd moved towards him, and around me, and down the stairs for a closer look.
'Any idea who it is?' one of them asked excitedly.
The man shook his head, but then followed it with, 'You know, it can't be, but it looks like Terry Breene.'
No, I thought, it doesn't. Not any more.
It was dark, wet, and I was pissed, but I drove home. Sometimes you have to. Terry Breene was dead, and the last non-lustful words he had spoken had been to me. Maybe he had found some consolation in my assurance that he would he remembered for his football, not his tabloidy exploits. But if that very reassurance had spurred him on to commit his very public suicide, it had also cancelled itself out. He would be remembered now as the supremely talented footballer who killed himself by jumping out of a third-floor window.
Dumb.
Dumb.
A fucking waste.
I punched the dash half a dozen times on the way home. He'd been such a star when he was young, but he'd left the game early and been written off in the press as a drunken wastrel. Terry had always maintained that he was having a ball – making money, and sleeping with gorgeous women. His forays back into football via management had always started with a flourish and then quickly petered out, but he'd always bounced back before.
Linfield was different. His previous fuck-ups had been with other people's money, and this one was with his own. Just when he thought he might finally have cracked it, a few thugs with baseball bats had pulled the rug out from under him. It didn't matter whether it was an attack on Israel, or an attack on Terry himself because he was a Catholic messing with a Protestant team, the result was the same. He'd lost everything and couldn't bear to start again.
Bastards.
I pulled into the driveway. The house was in darkness. Not only was Patricia failing to keep the home fires burning, she hadn't even left a lamp on. I didn't feel like going in. My wife was gone for the night, I'd lost my job, fallen out with May Li, been punched in the mouth and my footballing hero had plunged to his bloody death.
I was knackered. Not just with the alcohol. Fatigue. It was an effort just to get out of the car. I could just as easily have nodded off where I was, listening to tapes of The Clash. But I needed a pee. Topper was sitting on the front windowsill. He hissed at me. I gave him the fingers. I let myself in. Went up to the bathroom. When I came out I hesitated at the top of the stairs, torn between going for
a lie-down and liberating a can from the fridge. I had a DVD of Terry Breene's finest moments, and I half thought of watching that, but I wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Too close. Too raw. But still, it was football, and I was pretty drunk.
I heard a click, off to my right, from our bedroom. The door was slightly open, enough for me to see that the bedside light was now switched on.
Patricia.
You sneaked home to surprise me. To seduce me.
You little hussy.
I smiled happily and turned for the door.
As I pushed it open, we said together, 'I knew you would come.'
Except she was a he, and husky with it.
We stared at each other. Stunned.
Me, in the doorway, Alec Large, naked on top of the bed.
He said, 'Oh.'
I was beyond even an 'Oh.'
He had an erection. At least I think it was an erection. A passing tree surgeon might have grafted on a mighty oak. He didn't even have the good grace to cover it up. Possibly because his hands weren't big enough.
'Holy fucking Christ,' I said, eventually.
'I was expecting someone else,' he said, sitting up.
'So I see.'
He cleared his throat. 'You're never home this early.'
'No,' I said.
'I was expecting Patricia.'
'Uhuh.'
'Bit of a miscalculation.'
'Uhuh.'
I was drunk, and have in the past been known to erupt into violence at the slightest provocation (before, admittedly, receiving a good beating) but there was something about Alec Large, lying naked on my bed, with his big hopeful eyes, and big hopeful other bits, which failed to spark that anger. He was stranded in the hopeless wilderness that lies between being pathetic and a total clown. It was a place I knew well.
Attacking him would have been like attacking myself.
And other psycho-babble.
I just felt kind of sorry for him. Terry Breene had killed himself because an eruption of violence had destroyed his dreams and left him a ruined man. Alec Large was naked in my bed with a hard-on. It was hardly the same thing.
Belfast Confidential Page 24